Fourteenth Hour
by SourCherryBlossom
Summary: Set during Season 4 Episode 10, where we catch up with Carrie and Quinn after the Embassy attack and during Saul's "debrief". A potential alternative pathway.
1. Fourteenth Hour

In the debrief room at the Embassy, Quinn paced like a caged animal.

"Come on, Saul, fucking _remember_!" Quinn slammed his hand into the tabletop, as Saul's head sank into his hands.

"I just… I…. I was hooded. It was dark."

Saul started to quietly sob as the door opened. Carrie leaned in, frowning. "Quinn, what are you doing?" she asked concernedly.

"Debriefing Saul," Quinn said flatly.

"Can I talk to you?" Carrie asked agitatedly as she motioned him out of the debrief room.

Carrie turned to confront Quinn. "What are you doing in there? Saul's been through Hell, he's in shock."

He folded his arms. "Carrie, we have to find Haqqani now! He's injured and has probably gone to the same safe house they were holding Saul in! We have to find him and get the list back! We have about 72 hours before he's in the wind."

Carrie sighed, and shifted her eyes so as not to meet Quinn's. "Quinn, I need to tell you something. We're breaking off relations with Pakistan. And they're moving us out."

"_What_?! When?"

"Tomorrow morning, 0630."

"Jesus Christ! We can't leave now! If Haqqani escapes Islamabad with that list, every asset on that list is _dead_, and you know it, Carrie. It would set our work back here by 20 years. I can't leave. Fuck that!"

"So you're going to, what, stay here go to war on Haqqani all by yourself?" Carrie thundered.

"If I have to," Quinn snapped.

"It's not up for negotiation. You could be killed or worse. I can't have that. Pack your things and be ready to leave at 0630."

Quinn glared at Carrie and stalked off. Carrie stuck her head in the conference room door and spoke briefly to Saul. "Saul, go take a shower and get some rest. I'll check in with you later." Saul raised his head and gave her a weary nod.

As she watched Quinn leave the suite, her guts twisted with a terrible sense of foreboding. There was something about his angry stride and fierce scowl that set off alarm bells. Impulsively, Carrie ran after Quinn as he strode angrily down the hall outside the debrief room.

"Quinn, wait up. Stop." He stopped and turned towards her.

"What, Carrie."

"I need to talk to you. About something else."

"Okay. What?"

"I don't want to get into it here. Can we talk in my quarters? In ten minutes?"

Quinn looked at Carrie closely. "Sure," he said evenly. He walked towards the personal quarters wing, more slowly. Carrie sighed.

Eleven minutes later, Carrie turned the key of her apartment door, swung it open and turned on the light. She gasped, startled, to see Quinn sitting in one of her armchairs, quietly in the dark.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Quinn, you scared the shit out of me."

"Sorry. You gave me a key."

She shut the door, turned to him and sat slowly on the couch opposite him. "Yeah, I did."

"Well? I'm in kind of a hurry, Carrie."

Carrie looked at Quinn, and he saw the genuine hurt in her eyes. "Quinn, I almost died today. You almost died today. Can we take just a few minutes to get ourselves together?" She almost sounded like she was crying. Quinn said up and said, more softly, "I'm listening."

"Do you want something to drink? I have vodka in the freezer."

Quinn shook his head. "Not yet. I'm too wired. I don't want to be drunk and wired."

She sighed, almost sobbed, and played with her hands. "I'd like to be drunk. Everything… has just completely turned to shit. And I have this terrible feeling…"

"I have a terrible feeling too, Carrie. Fara's dead. Redmond's dead. Hensley's dead…."

"Stop!" Carrie almost shrieked. "Don't you think I know all that? That's not what I mean."

She stopped looking at her feet and looked up into Quinn's eyes, her head cocked to the side, her eye leaking a single tear. "I have the terrible feeling that you're going to go out and try to get Haqqani yourself. Before he's in the wind, as you said."

Quinn looked steadily back at her, and said nothing.

"Am I right? _Am I right?_" Carrie asked, her voice rising. "Quinn, you can't!"

"There's a Taliban flag flying over my Embassy. I can't let that stand." He stood as if to leave.

"Quinn, please listen to me. Just for a few minutes, please, I swear to God." Carrie's heart must have been nearly bursting in her chest, because she was sobbing openly now. "Please, just sit the fuck back down."

Quinn sat down reluctantly. Carrie sat up in her chair, facing him, her hands clasped.

"Quinn. This is an utter clusterfuck. We lost so many people. We lost information. But I am in this for the Long Game." Her voice was ragged and she sounded angry. "I acknowledge, if you go out there, and try to get Haqqani by yourself, there is a chance you will succeed. But I think it's a slim chance." She sniffed, as Quinn looked at her intently. His expression was melting from hard-as-nails operative into a quizzical, sad gaze.

Carrie continued, "However, I think if you go after Haqqani alone, there is a very high likelihood that you'll be killed. And I just can't live with that."

Quinn looked at her and sat forward in his chair. Still, he said nothing, hands clasped loosely between his knees.

Carrie continued, "I am in this for the Long Game. I am going to go back to Langley, regroup, heal up, bury my friends," she said bitterly, "and figure out how to get that motherfucker once and for all. But I can't do it without you, Quinn. I can't. Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

Quinn didn't answer for a long moment. Outside the embassy, cars and ambulances honked and wailed. "I think so," he said quietly.

"If you die, too, it's all over for me," Carrie's voice broke with a cry, and she slid forward, nearly falling to her knees onto the floor. "Please, please, don't go out there alone. I need you." Her hair hung forward, hiding her face as she sobbed.

Quinn squatted on one knee, and reached out to Carrie, putting his arms under hers and lifting her slowly to her feet. He folded her into his arms, holding her in a tight hug, and she turned her head sideways against his sturdy chest, listening to his heartbeat. They stood completely still like that for a minute, arms around each other. The violence and pain of the previous 13 hours seemed farther away as they held each other. The comfort, so welcome and so unusual, was almost too much to bear. As her cheek rested on Quinn's impeccably starched button-down, she was shaking like a leaf and started to sob again.

"Shhhhh," Quinn comforted her. "I know, I know." Carrie couldn't be sure, but she thought she felt Quinn's lips kiss the top of her head. It was so soft, she almost couldn't feel it. "Ok, Carrie, Ok. You know I can't say no to you."

Carrie sniffled as they moved apart from each other. They stood holding each other's arms, and Carrie looked up at him, smiling sadly through her tears. Quinn reached up and gently touched the wound on Carrie's head, which she got in the SUV during the RPG attack. "Looks like you were just grazed. Want some help cleaning it up?"

They stepped apart a little farther. "No, no, I'm ok. I got it." Carrie looked at the floor. Then back up at Quinn. He was still looking at her with a softness that suggested that if she wanted some more help with her clothes, he'd be happy to oblige.

"OK," he said. He managed a tiny smile. "If you're ok, then I'm going. I'm going to check on Saul and then later I'll check back in on you. Maybe the three of us can get together and have some of that vodka. Before we all leave tomorrow. "

"Thank you, Peter." Internally, Quinn was shocked. Carrie almost never used his given name. Something was different between them now. He almost felt like crying himself.

Quinn moved to the door and opened it. Carrie stood, arms folded, tears still running down her cheeks. She smiled at him. "If you need me, I'm a phone call away, " he said.

He spared her one last backward glance - full of longing. Then he closed the door behind him, and turned the key in the lock.


	2. As long as it takes

Carrie toweled off after a long, hot shower and put on a t-shirt and shorts before wrapping up in a bathrobe. She used a washcloth to wipe steam off the mirror, then leaned in and inspected her forehead. The cut she had gotten in the RPG attack was almost big enough to require suturing - she thought. She slowly shuffled into the kitchen, and was rooting in the nearly empty freezer when came a discreet tap on the door.

Carrie opened the door, expecting Saul and Quinn, but only Quinn stood outside her door. She opened the door wider to admit him. "Where's Saul?"

"He was beat. He went to bed."

Carrie closed the door behind Quinn and tightened her bathrobe belt. "Did you continue your debrief? Or just tell him a bedtime story."

"Come on, Carrie," Quinn said with mild disgust.

"Sorry. But you were hard on him before," she said, heading back into the kitchen. She found two small water tumblers and set them on the counter. "He'll probably remember better in the morning after he gets some rest. Do you want some of this?" She pulled a fifth of Tito's vodka out of the freezer.

"Wow. Where the fuck did you get that?" Quinn said.

"Chase brought it in for me. He visited his mother in Texas last week."

"Make it a short one. I can't stay long. I'm wiped out too." Her eyes flicked to his face as he said he couldn't stay. But Quinn was looking at the floor.

They took their drinks to Carrie's living room and sat across from each other, she on the couch, he in the armchair. She folded her legs under her and they sat in amicable silence for some time.

Carrie sighed, sipped and then slumped down a little deeper. "Ah. It's good."

"America's only hangover-proof vodka. Believe me, I have tested them all," Quinn said.

Then it was quiet again as the incredible stress and tragedy of the previous day seemed to spread out between them. Carrie segued into a preoccupied silence, so many images flowing in front of her eyes, like a second-rate horror movie, the face of one colleague and friend after another flowing by. Her stomach churned. Quinn was staring at his vodka glass soberly, swirling the liquid around. She hiccuped slightly and then said, "I called Fara's father."

Quinn looked levelly at Carrie. "How did that go?"

"You can imagine. He's old, sick... This was his only child. He's all alone." They made eye contact and Quinn nodded. He finished his vodka in one gulp and set the glass down.

Feeling like he was preparing to rise, Carrie felt a mild internal panic - she didn't want him to leave yet. The emptiness of the apartment was unbearable after a day like this, filled with agony, blood, death. She brought up another topic to engage Quinn. "And, I got singed by Max. Fucking ouch."

Quinn settled back into his chair, hands on his knees. "What did he say?"

Carrie gave a short, sharp ironic laugh, and said, "He said I was a bitch to Fara. Basically."

Quinn said nothing for a moment and then said, "Were you?"

That was all it took. Carrie put her feet on the floor, and sat forward, putting her face in her hands. "Fuck, fuck, Quinn, I don't know! I never meant to be! I was just doing my job. Trying to make her a better agent. Toughen her up." Her eyes swam as she pictured beautiful, youthful Fara, laid on white plastic in the Embassy lobby. Forever stilled. She sniffed and a tear dripped off the end of her nose and onto the floor. When she looked up, Quinn was sitting up and leaning closer to her. He reached out and touched her wrist very gently, then pulled his hand back quickly as if he might get burned.

"It's hard to be tough _all _the time," he said, his voice rough. She felt so empty and sick and overwhelmed that she could hardly meet his eyes, but when she looked up, she saw nothing but acceptance, understanding, reassurance. And that softness again. She reached up to swipe hair out of her eyes, and bumped the cut she had gotten in the RPG attack.

"Fuck. Ouch."

"Here. Let me see it." Her words seemed to energize him because he got quickly to his feet and walked a step closer, bringing his warmth into close proximity, coming down on one knee to inspect the wound more closely. Somehow in squatting down, his other knee had insinuated itself between her legs. She looked straight ahead, wiping at her nose with one hand, as his broad chest filled her vision entirely. She was motionless, inches from his body, close enough to smell him. God, but he smelled good, even after the crazed action of this day. He touched the top of her head, inspecting the cut with a light, featherlike touch. He stayed near quite a bit longer than seemed necessary, then said, "It's not too bad. But you should put something on it." He stood again and said, "Do you have anything?"

"Uh, I don't know. Maybe."

He nodded, "Well, if you don't, I do." She smiled. Quinn could probably field-dress an AK wound with the paper towels in her kitchen and a pocketknife.

Carrie stood up and brushed closely past Quinn, heading to her bathroom. She opened the medicine cabinet and looked for some kind of ointment, eventually locating a tube of Neosporin. Quinn reached over her shoulder and took it out of her hand.

"Here. Sit," he ordered, indicating the edge of the tub. She sat down and held still for him. He stood close again and dressed the cut on Carrie's head with an incredibly gentle touch. Jesus, he was taking his sweet time, it was just a scratch... she squirmed at the attention, and as she wiggled the shoulders of her robe fell open.

"Alright, Quinn. I'm fine," she said, trying to sound disgusted, irritated, independent. But what came out sounded defeated and tired.

"I know," Quinn said, "you've lived through worse," his voice breaking slightly. He stopped dressing the wound and looked down at Carrie, and suddenly his medical attention became something else. His hand stroked her hair, lightly, down the side of her face, around her ear, and then repeated, gentle stroking over and over. Head, hair, ear, neck. She closed her eyes, didn't stop him. Carrie recognized a change in the chemistry of the air in the room. He had gone from being kind and pragmatic to being intimate, sexual. His hand was hot and she swore she could feel him tremble as he touched her. His closeness, his smell again, so good. Her gut was tied in a knot. Finally, she gathered enough courage to look up into his eyes. He was tall, she had to crane her neck. But his eyes locked onto hers. "You've lived through much worse," he said, voice filled with regret.

She saw such a mixture of emotions in his eyes. Pity, fear, anxiety, tenderness, anger. His hand slipped down onto her shoulder. He leaned in towards her as his hand continued down her arm and stopped right over the tiny, puckered scar. The scar from the bullet wound he inflicted the previous year.

Quinn tossed the tube of antibiotic into the sink, and bending over, put his left hand on her other upper arm. Under his caresses, she came slowly to her feet, her robe falling off completely. His eyes never left hers. The direct contact of his skin on her arms was comforting, arousing, warming. His right thumb rubbed the scar on her left bicep. He looked down at it, said nothing. She saw he was breathing deeper, and faster.

"Quinn," Carrie said. She had no idea what she was going to say next. She felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room, felt such a stab of desire for him in her guts that she almost felt nauseous. After the pain of the day, how dare they find pleasure in such a moment? A ridiculous thought. Bandaging a cut in the bathroom, for God's sake.

"Carrie?" Quinn's voice was rough again. His eyes were tender, and he looked so fucking sad, that she had to look away. After everything they'd been through, this deep connection was just too much. Overwhelming. He seemed to have gone past the place inside himself where he could be shocked at his own actions. His breath coming faster, he put both hands around her arm, and raising it to his mouth, he bent and kissed the scar his bullet had created. Carrie sucked in her breath. Then she could feel his hot tongue on her skin as he kissed the scar. "Carrie," he said as he mouthed her arm, open and hot, his cheeks covered with stubble, his eyes closed. This time her name was an affirmation. She felt weak in the knees, she felt like screaming.

Finally Quinn regained some control of himself, and let go of Carrie's arms. Immediately, she howled internally for his touch to return. He took one step back and just looked at her face. For a loaded second, neither of them said anything. Who the fuck knew that the mind of a trained killer could house such tenderness?

Abruptly, Quinn looked abashed. Awareness of the day, the time, the situation came flooding back. "I should let you get some sleep," he said, turning and walking back out of the bathroom.

The need in her was so great that she nearly snapped. She followed him into the living area. "I can't. I can't sleep. I never sleep anymore," she said. She was desperate for him to stay, to not leave her sight.

Quinn turned and looked at her. Waiting.

"Please stay. I can't stand to be alone tonight. Please."

Quinn looked at his shoes. Then back into her eyes. He appeared to be on the verge of closing the space between them and making a move that would send both of them collapsing into the bed, the furniture, the floor, anywhere, everywhere, with their clothes coming off as fast as he could remove them. Still, Quinn was nothing if not self-controlled. He looked at her levelly and tried to gauge what she needed the most. "I'll stay. You sleep, I'll keep watch," he said quietly.

She took a deep breath. Now that the tension was eased slightly, Quinn went to the kitchen, pouring himself one more short drink. Carrie went into her bedroom, and peeled back the covers, climbing gratefully and exhaustedly into bed. A moment later, Quinn came into the room, and pulling an overstuffed armchair sideways, placed it so it faced her pillow. He reached out and turned out the bedroom light. Sitting in the near darkness, Quinn cocked one ankle up on the opposite knee and sipped his drink. His eyes never left Carrie's face. He seemed to have regained something of his composure, and the boiling, volcanic sexuality which had minutes before threatened to explode into a raging fire seemed somewhat banked. It was so clear now - he was burning for her. But exhaustion and grief had won this round. He said nothing.

She had forgotten to put in her mouthguard, hadn't taken an Ambien, and had only had one drink. If she managed to fall asleep, this would be the least medicated, least fucked-up rest she'd had in Islamabad. She felt safe as a child, in bed with him watching over her. The sharp, stabbing pain in her chest, the worst symptom of grief, eased as she took a deep breath and let it out. The warmth between her legs suffused her entire body, and improved the feeling of contentment. He wanted her. She had sort of known, but not in her conscious mind. And not how much. In the gloom, she could see Quinn's eyes on her.

"This day was fucked," Carrie said finally.

"Yeah, it was."

"How long will you stay?" she said quietly.

"As long as it takes. Just go to sleep."

Her eyes closed. Finally, she felt relaxed enough to rest. A few minutes went by and then she opened her eyes again, slightly. He hadn't moved and appeared to be wide awake, studying her face.

She closed her eyes again, and this time sleep took her. There were no dreams.


	3. L'Heure Bleue

At 2:30 AM, Carrie woke from a comalike sleep, coming up in consciousness one level at a time. First she remembered the convoy - the missile - Saul handing her the automatic. She frowned as she remembered bodies lined up in the lobby. Hensley. Jude. Fara. John. Full consciousness clicked in and she remembered Peter and what had happened last night. It had been only one vodka, Jesus. But what she remembered both jarred and excited her. She remembered she had asked him to stay, and was suddenly terrified that he had snuck out in the night to try to find Haqqani. She opened her eyes.

But sure enough, he was still there in the armchair, silhouetted in the gray light that filtered through her closed curtains. His head had been leaning back on the armchair, but as she sat up, he lifted his head, apparently still completely awake.

She felt in her mind for the right greeting. When you find your Chief of Support sitting in your bedroom at two in the morning, staring at you, what do you say? Feeling like the world's most awkward teenager, she sat up slightly and leaned on her elbow.

"Hi," she managed.

Peter sighed. "Are you feeling better?" he asked.

"I am. You're still awake."

"You're not the only one who has trouble sleeping."

He stood up and walked to her window, pulling back her curtain. The residential wing where the Chief of Support and the Station Chief lived was far inside the embassy compound, but it was also high up. From the ninth floor, Quinn looked out over the compound, towards the administrative buildings, and north towards the front gate of the embassy. This late at night, even busy Islamabad was usually quieter, but not tonight. Cars, taxis, ambulances, G-cars and SUVs as well as bikes and groups on foot thronged the one street he could see. A small gaggle of Pakistanis, excited by the news, still stood outside the bustle of the embassy, taking pictures of the building. The Taliban flag had been taken down, but the shock and awe remained, as evidenced by the level of rubbernecking.

Carrie got out of bed, and came to stand next to Quinn, opening the curtain all the way. She folded her arms as they stood side by side. "They've been at it all night," Quinn said. "I counted three carloads of Talibs going by, automatic weapons ready to rock, Taliban flags waving. And that was just in the one hour I stood here. This is not the same country we arrived in two months ago. What a fucking circus."

"You hit Haqqani today. Right? What are the odds that was a fatal injury?"

"Very low. I know it wasn't a lung or heart wound by the speed he moved when he fled the building. Motherfucker was hot-footing it."

"Fuck," Carrie said, shuffling her feet. "But still, better than nothing."

A beat passed. Then Quinn, still looking straight ahead out the window, said, "I'm sorry about last night." Her heart cramped in her chest.

She leaned over and put her hand on his arm, her other arm around his waist. "Hey," she said, waiting until he turned and looked at her, his spine still erect as steel. "Hey. I don't want you to be sorry."

He looked down at his feet, thought a moment, and then said very quietly, "Carrie, I've been doing this job for a long time. More than twelve years. I don't know about you, but I feel sometimes like I have _become _my job. And my job is fucking killing people."

"Always for a reason, Peter. Always on the right side." Her eyes were huge and luminous in the darkness, her skin white. She looked both intrigued and terrified.

"We've talked about this. I'm not sure there is a right side."

Carrie's eyes filled with tears.

"Don't." she said. "Not now. I don't care about any of that. Or what happens tomorrow. I need you here. Do you remember when you called me? Told me the Sandy's murder was orchestrated, a setup?"

"Of course I remember."

"Do you remember what I said?"

His voice gravelly with exhaustion, Quinn responded, "Yes."

She said nothing more. Just looked at him. His eyes were hooded with fatigue and almost black with desire. He took a step towards her.

He reached up, and with the back of his hand, caressed her chin up to her jawline and then rested his hand on the back of her head.

"None of that shit matters right now, not to me," she said, shaking her head.

"Carrie," Quinn rasped, his arousal evident. "Are you sure about this? We don't have much time."

She shook her head, confused. "I don't know what you mean. I don't care," she said. "Please," she said, not knowing what she was pleading for.

She found out soon enough, when Quinn moved to her in one rapid step. "Then fuck it," he snapped, reaching for Carrie and pulling her into his arms. He looked at her face wistfully for only one second before the last of his restraint snapped and his mouth came down on hers. She expected a bruising kiss, but his lips covered hers gently at first. So soft, he was, and tasted so good. His tongue ventured into her mouth, and she eagerly returned the kiss. As it deepened, she was so startled by the turn of events, by the intensity of the feeling, by her own nerve, by the insanity of the day's events, and then the nights, that she felt herself grow extremely weak in the knees. Quinn's arms around her enclosed her in a tight, loving grip, strong, safe and finally able to show the care and protection he had repressed for so long.

He felt her legs weaken and held her up, and then moved swiftly to the bed with an agile move that felt like something he must have learned in ops. One arm under her back, the other hand buried in her hair, a foot behind hers that tripped her, followed by a lift-and-carry that delivered her bent backward over the bed, a victim of lust, flattened for his mercy. She wondered how many people he'd killed with that move. She wondered how many women he'd seduced with that move. Then she decided she didn't give a fuck, because Quinn's hands were all over her. He had no qualms about removing her clothing and before a minute passed, he had pulled her panties over her ankles. He sat back and observed her naked form, white and perfect, and was able to hold back his his highly stoked desire for only a moment, lay down full length on top of her, eyes burning, and went back to work kissing her neck, eyes, lips, cheeks, and buried his head in the crook of her neck. "Oh, God, Carrie," he moaned.

He was still wearing all of his clothes. This made Carrie feel even more naked as he kissed his way down the front of her body, between her breasts, taking a pink nipple in his mouth and sucking deep, deeper, until it started to hurt and she moaned for him. His hands found their way down and parted her thighs, which she opened willingly as his tongue circled her navel. Eyes closed and head thrown back in complete abandon, Carrie moaned his name, the way he'd always wish she would, "Peter, Peter, Oh God," and rocked her hips back and forth over his stroking fingers. He found the center of her and worked it hard, slow, in circles. She tossed her head, and begged him again, causing him almost to shoot in his pants like a kid. Her hands gripped his shoulders, fingernails digging in.

"Peter, please..." His nose was in her soft blond hair, his tongue on her cunt, as he finally found and kissed the very center of his beloved Carrie's womanhood, eating and licking in a steady rhythm, one finger entering her and holding her G-spot. Pressing. Listening to her sounds and responding to what she seemed to like best. The floodgates of her pent-up orgasm, all the tension, the stress, the hidden love, the fear and pain, came out in one almighty climax. She screamed and buried her hands in his hair. Finally, he thought, finally.

She lay still, panting, eyes half closed, watching him unbutton his shirt, strip off his pants, socks and shoes, and reveal a large, eager and extremely hard member. Climbing back on top of her, he eased himself between her thighs and took her in his arms. More softly, he kissed her, and then holding himself poised at her entrance, he quietly stated, "I don't care what happens tomorrow. Next week. I don't care where you are or what you're doing. Some part of you will always be right here. With me, fucking you." He slid inside her wetness possessively and started to move.

"Yes. Yes. Not so gentle," she whimpered. His nostrils flared and he obliged her, fucking her with strong, deep strokes, taking complete possession of her and making her moan aloud. Those crazymaking sounds she made while fucking, all the while, and he finally put her ankles on his shoulders and finished her that way, working her clit with his thumb. Her third orgasm threw him over the edge, and he spilled himself into her and fell onto his elbows, the whole world going white for a moment, in his ears, only the sound of her voice, the feeling of her breath on his lips. Neither of them had any words. He kissed tears from the corners of her eyes.

Carrie and Quinn lay still together, sweat lightly sheathing their bodies, listening to the distant traffic outside the apartment. Recovering herself a bit, Carrie said, "What the fuck was _that."_

"If it was anyone else, I'd say it was a wild fuck," Quinn said.

"Oh. But it's not someone else, so what the fuck was it?" She sat up, next to him, naked in bed, her soft breasts shadowed in the half-darkness.

He choked on what he had to say next, so he said nothing. He reached out and placed a hand on her bare chest over her heart. Reached up higher and touched her cheek.

"Sleep with me," she said.

They both got into her bed, and Quinn wrapped himself around her, naked from behind, pressing as much of his skin into contact with hers as possible. Peter kissed the back of her neck, and then his lips moved in her hair, next to her ear. "I'd never let anything hurt you, you know that. That's why I've always been around, that's why I come when you call."

Almost asleep in the cocoon of warmth, Carrie murmured, "I know. I know."

In the morning, Carrie woke naked, alone, and a bit sore, but her body still felt tingly and alert to his caresses. But where the hell was Quinn? This wasn't a very big apartment. He was obviously gone. He must have gone across the hall for some fresh clothes.

She went to the bathroom, splashed water on her face, pulled on a bathrobe. Walking into the kitchen where her phone was charging, she saw that a text message had arrived. Swiping her phone open, her jaw dropped as she read the message from Quinn.

"Leaving Embassy. Going after that cocksucker. Don't try to follow me. Give me a week. I will see you stateside."

"Fuck!" Carrie screamed, and slammed the phone down.


	4. Failure Protocol

Outwardly seething, Carrie stormed down through the halls of the embassy towards the Intel suites, and steamed into her office. She had had a good cry in the shower – someone overhearing her would have characterized it more as agonized howling. How could he, she thought. What the fuck kind of game was he playing? Everything he said sounded so sincere, everything they _did_ certainly _felt_ sincere, and she could not believe that he would do this, after what had transpired last night. Going out after Haqqani, putting himself deep into harm's way, in enemy territory with no support? It was a suicide mission. Last night she did not feel she was in the presence of a man who wanted to die. Quite the opposite. It made no sense.

She turned on her computer and reviewed her email, scanning all the messages for any sign of where Quinn might be going. Nothing. There was an all-site email from Lockhart specifying the completion of the Failure Protocol – but there was no way she was shutting down the whole station and leaving Quinn here, alone, without backup and ostensibly to die.

She swiped her phone open and looked at her texts again. The last messages she'd sent – terse, full of profanity, question marks, obviously desperate, had gone out two or three per hour since she discovered his absence. There was still no response. She sent one more – no punctuation, just the word, "Please" and hit send. She felt like vomiting.

She got up and walked out to the main operations room, where plastic lined the walls and the bodies of her colleagues had been removed for transport back to the States. Max, Barbara, Chase and a few others were soberly working on the Failure protocol. In a few short sentences, she put a stop to it and ordered everything back up – databases, search functions, all the intel systems, everything. They stared at her, dumbfounded. "I thought we were shutting down," said Chase.

Without mincing words, she told her baffled colleagues that she was going to get Peter Quinn back. That she wasn't leaving without him. That she wasn't willing to lose one more person in Pakistan. They nodded morosely. Max said nothing, but his face crumpled. She walked back out to her office as Max left the room as well.

A half hour later, and alarm sounded. Someone was in the personnel safe where the diplomatic documents were stored. Carrie hustled to the HR room, now almost empty, and found Max there, digging in the safe and stuffing a duffel bag.

"Max. I'm still Station Chief. The system alerts me when someone accesses this safe."

"Yeah, well, I'm just…"

Carrie grumpily fixed him with a stare, and nodded at the duffel bag. "Can I see it?" she asked.

Max handed the bag over. Money, US and Euros. Quinn's passport. Another passport with Quinn's picture, but a false name and address. "Well," she said laughing humorlessly, "this isn't for you. Where is he?"

Max was a great tech guy, but a terrible liar. "I don't know," Max said to his shoes.

"Then where are you _delivering_ this," she seethed.

Max swallowed. The wrath of Carrie was more than he was willing to risk. Especially where Quinn was concerned.

45 minutes later, Carrie tapped on the door of a second-floor walk-up four blocks from the German Embassy. The elegant, statuesque blonde who opened the door was four inches taller than Carrie and a good ten years older. Carrie sized the woman up and understood the situation immediately. Jealousy twisted in her stomach. Had Quinn been playing her? Would he really do that, say all those things, just for a fuck on the side? It didn't seem possible.

Still, she kept her head enough to speak to the woman, and inspect the apartment for signs of Quinn, and leave her contact information before she was shown the door. She got as deep into the apartment as the woman would let her and looked around as much as possible. No shoes… no jacket. No time to check the trash. But there on the floor of the hallway, were drops of water. Goddamn it! He was holing up here, had just taken a shower, and Carrie knew it.

Why the hell didn't he shower with me, she thought insanely. She had been promiscuous as hell in her life, and no doubt Quinn had many notches in his belt as well. It was the life they led. But the idea of him being intimate right now– loving - with someone else – someone she didn't know about… she didn't know whether to weep or slap this bitch.

Carrie had to give the woman credit, she did cover for Quinn as well as she could. "If you see Peter, tell him I said to fuck himself. He'll know why," the woman said in her heavily accented English, by way of farewell. Maybe that's the way it really was, but if so, why the fuck did he come here? Biting her tongue, Carrie left the apartment.

Ten minutes on the phone with Max, and she found out which car in the underground parking garage belonged to the German woman. She thought it was her best bet to catch him on his way out of her place, and stood next to the car. She made a quick call to base security, too.

She sweated in the Islamabad heat as she waited. Ten, twenty, then thirty minutes. Half an hour, she mused, long enough for a quickie. The idea made her feel so defeated that she almost sobbed aloud. For a woman who had had so many broken hearts, suffered so much abuse, so much disrespect, she found herself amazed to still find her feelings hurt at the situation.

Her thoughts spun out, remembering his mouth on her body. This _couldn't_ be the only time they would get to feel that way. It had been so long since she felt good about anything, since she felt anything at all. In the last few months, something had awakened in her, something that compelled her to come to him, to find him, to save him. Something selfless that she thought had died with Brody. Her mind went around and around the previous night's events. Breaking that barrier, making love to her, he had brought them both back to life. But now he seemed hell-bent on revenge, on killing Haqqani, so that he was willing to sacrifice himself to get to the power structure of ISI. These were not the thoughts of a rational person. If she could get to him, to slow him down. Get him to think, to feel, to speak to her.

Finally, wearing a dark gray t-shirt and with his wet hair standing on end, Quinn appeared in the parking garage, striding quickly towards Carrie. He looked more concerned than irritated, but irritation was in his voice as he said, "Well, well, look who's here. I told you not to follow me."

"Quinn. What the fuck are you doing? You told me you were leaving with _me_. Today."

"I'm sorry, Carrie, but I had a lot of time to think last night. And I don't have time to talk about it right now, but the bottom line is, I've been a bad guy. _I _think I can do something to balance out all the things I've done. _You_ have to go home."

Frantically, Carrie said, "Quinn, you're on all the watch lists! ISI has you on a kill list. The attack was government sponsored! They're _all_ looking for you! You might get Haqqani, if you can even find him, but you can't possibly survive! You have to come with me."

He kept his face neutral, but she could feel his emotions rising. "Carrie, you're used to getting your own way. But this time you have to trust me."

"Quinn," Carrie pleaded, her voice quavering, "We lost."

He shook his head, and turned away from her to walk to the car door. Just then, two burly security men from the IBD station came through the entrance. He looked at her disgustedly. Only two, he thought. How amusing.

"Oh, here we go," Quinn said. "Really, Carrie? Really?"

Carrie looked at her feet, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," she said, and stepped away from Quinn as the men approached him. "Come with us, sir," the younger one said.

Carrie's eyes opened wide as Quinn dropped the first guy, slamming his head into a car, and with lightning speed, turned and twisted the other guy's arm behind his back and dropped him too, before either of the guards could react. "Quinn, Jesus Christ!" Carrie screamed. The second guy was big and fell heavily to the pavement like a side of beef. Quinn rapidly removed both of their sidearms, and tossed them one after the other onto the top of a wire equipment cage, far out of reach. He then stooped and checked the pulse of both of them, with two fingers on the neck. One ok – the other ok. But out cold. He stepped over their inert bodies, up to a horrified Carrie who was backing away from him with real fear in her eyes. God, he had frightened her. He hated himself and reached for her, to prevent her fleeing.

His nerves were up and his reflexes peaking after the fight, and he grabbed her throat with one hand, too hard. Her eyes bulged and she looked even more frightened. Exasperated beyond belief with her stubbornness, he spat, "For once in your life, you need to _listen_."

She almost cowered and put her hand over his hand. He realized he had almost choked her and relaxed his hold. His hand slipped to her shoulder. She looked less frightened. Peter breathed in and out rapidly and started to calm himself down. He put his other hand on her shoulder and held her at arm's length.

"I mean it Carrie," he said. "You can't follow me. You can't try to control me, or take me home. This time, you have to trust me."

"Quinn, I will NOT leave you here," Carrie raged. Her voice was low and hoarse. She took both of his hands and placed them over her heart, held them there by the wrists. "I will not let you go kill yourself. I will not leave you here, to be killed or captured or tortured. No." She shook her head slowly, her eyes not leaving his. Hot tears ran down her cheeks. His heart shattered, watching them. How much more would this woman be made to suffer? Fuck. And by me, her supposed protector, no less.

He walked back to the car and moved the younger guard, still unconscious, away from the passenger side door, as Carrie looked on, worriedly. He opened the door and held it wide.

With more menace than he felt, he snarled, "Get in the fucking car."


	5. One of my Places

Quinn took a right out of the parking garage and turned right again on Khayaban-e-Iqbal, and instantly, Carrie was lost. Unfortunately for her, she had not done most of her driving since she came to Islamabad. Being Station Chief afforded both privileges and security risks, both of which meant she was escorted almost everywhere.

Quinn stared straight ahead, his lips pressed together in a tight line. He had put on a jacket and cap which looked vaguely military, and quite ratty, but with the cap down low on his head, it changed his appearance enough that he wouldn't be made immediately unless being tailed by a skilled agent with a clear search image in mind. He reached into the back seat, pulled out long purple headscarf, and shoved it into her hands. "Wrap up in this," he said, clearly expecting immediate obedience. She covered her head, sneaking glimpses of Peter as she wrapped the scarf around her neck. "Now call them," he said tersely.

Carrie looked over at him. "Call who?" she said innocently.

"Cut the shit and call them. Tweedledee and Tweedledum will wake up soon. I don't want them tracing you to my location, thinking that I'm kidnapping you."

"_Are_ you kidnapping me?" Carrie said.

Quinn said nothing, then looked sideways at Carrie, his eyes moving over her breasts, over her thighs. "Maybe I should," he said. "It would be a lot easier than losing you every time I need to move over the next few days." Carrie swallowed.

She speed-dialed the security line she had called previously, before turning her face towards the window. She kept her voice low and calm, and Peter overheard her speak, "… disabled both men. No, not badly injured…. No, he moved out immediately. I'm shadowing him, but I think he might have lost me….. yeah, he's fast. In the Blue Area, near Saidpur, I think…. No. I don't think so, I'll see you tonight." She broke off the call.

"Now give me your phone," he said. Quinn's voice was quiet and smooth, emotionless. She had seen him like this many times, and when he was in operations mode, every word out of his mouth was a command. She considered some arguments briefly, then realized the futility of remonstrating with him, and handed it over. "Good," he said. He opened the window, and with a quick flick of his wrist, tossed her iPhone into the back of a parked pickup truck. Then he whipped a U-turn, squealing the tires of the VW, and left the truck and phone far behind them, speeding off in the other direction.

"Quinn!" Carrie squawked, outraged. "What the fuck!"

"You don't need me to explain. I can't have you traced to my safe location, I need it and the others I've secured, and there's no time to find more."

"Goddamn it," Carrie huffed.

"You wanted to come along," he pointed out.

"You said, 'get in the fucking car.' I thought you might wring my neck if I didn't," she said. Instead of acting guilty, Quinn snorted, "I feel like I might like to."

They rode on in silence for a few more miles, going westward away from the Diplomatic Enclave and through consecutively poorer neighborhoods until he turned off Ibn-e-Sina Road and took another sharp turn into a narrow dark alley, into which the car barely fit. Pulling to the end of the alley under a rust-ridden carport, Quinn parked the vehicle next to a battered metal loading dock door, and turned off the ignition.

"Come," he said, giving a clipped order. Carrie released her seat belt, got out, and followed him to a dark metal door reinforced with a new deadbolt. Quinn's key turned in the lock, and pushing the door open with mock chivalry, he bowed slightly and indicated that she should enter first. She moved into the dark, and only dared to take a step or two before she couldn't see well enough to move safely. She stopped, and Quinn came in and shut the door behind them with a thud, plunging them both into pitch darkness. She heard him turn the lock, but he didn't turn the light on.

"Quinn?" she said. Her voice quavered. "Where are we?"

He had moved, without making a sound, and was standing immediately behind her. He was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body, even though he wasn't touching her. "One of my places," he said darkly, close enough for her to feel his breath. She shuddered, and they both stood motionless in the dark for a moment.

Gently, he pulled the headscarf off her head, the silky fabric swiping over her cheeks and face, making her shiver. His fingers grazed the back of her neck raising goosebumps. He was silent. She could feel him drop the jacket and hat he'd been wearing onto the floor, along with the scarf. After another charged moment in the dark, Quinn flipped a light switch.

A single bulb came on, which hung about 12 feet above the old wooden floor in the room. As she studied the room silently, his hands came down gently on both her shoulders and held her there. To her left, Carrie spied a table, a few desk chairs, a set of file cabinets that apparently weren't in use, tipped over on their side. To her right, a couch, a chair, a desk with a power strip and UPS, and a docking station for his laptop, as well as a ViaSat unit for secure internet access. In front of her, though, was a much more disturbing sight, though it was not entirely surprising to her. A heavy wooden chair with arms, a pair of handcuffs attached to each of them. A low table with needlenose pliers, duct tape, vice grips, a hammer, a screwdriver, a hacksaw…

"Jesus Christ, Quinn! I guess I don't need to ask what you use this place for."

"I needed to ask a guy a few questions. He and I had a little chat this morning."

She shook his hands off her shoulders, irritated. "If I'm going to help you at all, you're going to have to be a little more direct." She walked across the room, putting the interrogation chair between him and herself, and turned to face him.

"OK, Carrie. This morning, after I left you, I convinced Parvez to take me on a little drive."

"Fucking Parvez," Carrie muttered.

"As usual, that cocksucker Fahrad Ghazi was right behind us, tailing us in his SUV. I got Parvez to let me off in a market, where I started a little, um, diversion."

"Oh, really. Would that be the conflagration in the market square off Saddar Road that came across the Com at about 7 AM?"

"Maybe. Probably. Yes. Anyway, I doubled back, got the jump on Ghazi, after which he was more than happy to drive over and visit with me here, with the barrel of my gun behind his ear."

"Quinn. Jesus. I can only fucking imagine. Where is he now?" she asked worriedly. She looked more closely at the tools, for signs of blood.

"I didn't kill him, if that's what you're worried about. In the end, I don't want to get in any worse with your buddy, Khan, than I already am."

Carrie bridled at the mention of Asaar Khan's name. "He isn't my buddy." Quinn just looked at her. "And what did you gain from all this?"

"This," Quinn said. He walked over to the desk and produced a piece of paper, handing it to her. Inspecting it, Carrie identified the OS details and identity codes from a couple of HTC Smart phones. "These are two phones from the series being used by Haqqani's organization. One, I got off a dead Talib in the Embassy lobby. The other, off our friend Ghazi. They switch them out like clockwork. I made a record of the phone numbers, but I gave the actual phones to a guy at Astrid's organization. Gerhardt is screening right now, as fast as he can, using those two to find the next burner phones in the series. When he does, Astrid will relay the information to me." At the mention of Astrid's name, Carrie's eyes narrowed. But she didn't want to go there yet.

"Then you'll have Haqqani's location?"

"Almost certainly. At least for a short period of time."

Carrie walked over to the couch, and sat down, her eyebrows furrowed as she looked over at the table of Quinn's tools. His techniques left something to be desired, in terms of crimes against humanity, but he certainly got information quickly.

"Where is Ghazi now?"

"Waking up in a dumpster outside Asaar Khan's office, wearing Iraqi handcuffs. He still has all his fingernails."

"And, what was her name, Astrid?" Carrie said acidly. "What exactly does she owe you, that she takes these kinds of risks?"

Quinn looked down, looked away, and wouldn't meet Carrie's eyes. "We go way back," he said.

Carrie observed Quinn for a moment, saying nothing. Quinn wouldn't meet her eyes. He went to the back of the room, into the darkness and emerged with a toolbox. He knelt on the floor next to the table and began carefully laying away tools into the box. Back to his taciturn self, she thought, never an extra word or a smile.

"Quinn, look at me," she said. He set down the needlenose pliers and looked up at her. His hangdog expression and tired eyes fractured her heart. But she still felt emotionally bruised up from the night before, and spoke to him harshly.

"You fucking lied to me," Carrie said. "You said you were going to stay with me, leave Pakistan. We were going _home_."

"Technically, I didn't lie," he said, looking down again. "You asked me how long I was going to stay. Right before you fell asleep. And I said, as long as it takes."

Carrie threw up her hands in exasperation. "What? That's insane. You know that's not what I was asking! And then you went directly to your _girlfriend_. God, I'm a fucking idiot." She got up and paced the floor, fuming.

Quinn frowned. "She's not my girlfriend. I don't think she ever was. Much to her dismay."

"Oh, now here comes the speech. 'She never meant anything to me." Next you'll be telling me you never fucked her," Carrie uttered.

Quinn slammed the lid of the toolbox shut. "Yes, we fucked. In fact, we fucked twice since I came here to the station. I've known Astrid for almost seven years. But in that time, not once have I told her I cared for her. Or anything like it," he said angrily.

Carrie stopped and folded her arms, glaring at Quinn. "You really had me going. I really believed you last night. But I can see that…" she trailed off, her face crumpling. She was back to the place she was that morning in the shower, howling. His lovemaking had felt so incredible that she thought he loved her. She could _feel_ it. The disappointment was too much to bear. She crouched over, as if gutshot, and buried her face in her hands.

"I don't love Astrid. I never did. She thinks if she waits long enough, that I'm going to come around. But that's never going to happen. After this morning, I think she knows why."

He walked over to Carrie, tried to help her stand, and take her hands from her face, but she smacked at him and pushed him away. He grabbed at her wrists, trying to restrain her, but she continued to try to fight and shove at him. "Don't fucking touch me," she sobbed.

Peter tried to hold her wrists securely, but she worked a hand loose and slapped at his face, grazing the corner of his jaw with her fingernail, drawing a thin line of blood. At that, Quinn had had enough, and grappled both her wrists behind her back, clenched in a firm grip, while wrapping his other arm completely around Carrie's torso, he wrangled her towards the beat-up couch, as she screeched and fought to free herself. "That's enough, Carrie," he said through clenched teeth.

He pulled her weight forward as she spluttered and scuffled with him. Both of them fell together onto the couch, his arms wrapped tightly around her so that she could not hurt him, or herself. Almost tight enough to bruise her ribs. They wrestled for another moment until she realized she was overpowered, and a frustrated shriek worked loose from her throat, her eyes closed, and tears streaming.

"Why, why? Why now? What am I supposed to do," she cried. She couldn't even articulate her pain, she only knew it was the worst feeling she'd had since she watched Brody die. She gave up on trying to get loose from his strong grasp, put her head down on his chest, and sobbed.

Quinn groaned. "Carrie, Carrie, no. No. Shhh. Please," he said, his voice hoarse. He loosened his grip and stroked her back, her hair. "It's my fault. We never talked. I never… told you… what I felt," he grated in her ear. "But for the last two years…" he trailed off, organizing his thoughts.

She raised her head and looked into his eyes, their faces inches apart, waiting. Even in this dim light, his eyes were so blue; rimmed with red and moist with emotion. Steam pipes clanged a faraway chime into the silence around them. Carrie waited. And finally, he spoke.

"I didn't even think I knew _how_ to love someone. I had girlfriends. I had booty calls. I had women literally all over the world. I even got someone pregnant, for Christ's sake, and left her with a son I never see." At the mention of his child, Carrie pulled her hand from Peter's tight hold and placed it softly on his cheek.

"But you… you make me feel something. Carrie, I tried to snuff it out. I tried to drink enough to make it stop. I went on missions, I fucked other women. But… I never stop thinking about you," he said intensely.

A tear trickled down his cheek. Slowly, her heart aching, she leaned up to his face and kissed it away. "Why didn't you tell me?" she said.

"You couldn't see me," he said quietly, brokenly. His hand came up to stroke her cheek as well, and she put her head on his shoulder. They both relaxed back into the couch, his arms around her, his hand over her head and ear, his lips in her hair. They breathed more slowly, in and out, and Carrie's eyes closed. She really had been blind, numb, she had had no idea.

After some time, her breath came more slowly. Quinn reached under her chin, cupped it with his palm, and turned her face towards his. "This is real," he said. And then he kissed her. She didn't even think of fighting it. She relaxed her body, and let his tongue enter her. The way his cock had the night before. His kiss was fathomless, opening her, and as she pressed close to him, she felt his body stiffen. The crack in her soul yawned wide and deepened, mysteriously, as the black depths of his evasive, terrifying love poured out of him, and into her, through this profound union. He clutched her tighter and moaned into her mouth. There could be no doubt, he had been telling the truth last night. He was still kissing her, his breath coming quicker through his nose, his hands open on her back, trying to cover as much of her body as possible. Her ever-present Quinn, her human shield. How could she not have seen this inside him? His feelings were so deep and painful to him, abyssal, soul-destroying. He had been such an iceman around her. How much that must have cost him! There was nothing for her to do but respond to his bare need, and give everything she was back to him, at last.

Finally, they broke away from each other. She lay her head down again on his shoulder. A good feeling, even in this ugly place, in these hideous circumstances. She wanted to enjoy the feeling of love and safety for a few moments, but knew they must breach the topic. "Peter," she said, enjoying his hand stroking her neck, sliding down to rest lightly on one of her breasts. "We still haven't discussed when you're coming home."

He sighed. "I guess you don't understand yet. I don't want to die. I'm not going to die. I'm going to remain very much alive. You were the one who brought me here, remember?" he said. She looked at her lap, suddenly ashamed. "You told me this was important. Well, now it is."

"Why did you go to Astrid? Why not come to me?" she said, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice, and failing.

"Because, Carrie, I knew you'd try to stop me. I was right. And I wanted you out of harm's way."

She sat up and away from him, and looked at his eyes. He continued, "I'm sure Astrid thinks she cares, but she really sees me as a conquest. I think she hopes that someday, I'll act like I love her. Right now, she has access to... things I need. And is willing to provide them. But the bottom line is, she doesn't care enough about me to prevent me from doing something really dangerous."

"And I do," Carrie said, glowering.

"Obviously," said Quinn, tweaking her nipple.

"Stop it," she snapped, and stood up. "You're right about that. I think this is crazy. What kind of plan could you have, that you could possibly escape from Pakistan after executing? ISI will have you followed, they'll figure out the German connection soon enough, and Quinn, I don't know how you plan to do this, but you'll never get close to him without being in mortal danger yourself. No wonder you said, 'We don't have much time,' last night. The risk is too great," she finished, walking towards the door.

Peter stood up and followed her to the door. "Carrie, you have two choices, help me or hinder me, and I can see you going in a direction I can't permit."

She turned around, eyes blazing, "I can't lose you, Quinn. Not now. I _refuse_. I'm not going to let you get yourself killed. Whatever you do next, you know I can find you. You can expect a pickup from Embassy security and the MPs within the next 12 hours. And this time it won't be two low-key internal agents. This time it will be 12 guys in riot gear. I'll summon a tranquilizer gun if I have to," Carrie said, and started towards the door again.

Quinn grabbed her arm and whirled her around, held her in place. Her hair flew, and she faced him with wide eyes.

"No. You won't." he pronounced. "If that's the choice you make, I'll have to… alter the circumstances."

She stood still, her arm still held in his, not daring to move, eyes widening further and her anxiety growing.

"Seriously, Quinn, what are you going to do, keep me here?"

"You forget who you're dealing with, Carrie. Nobody knows where you are. And I only need a few days." His eyes glittered dangerously. He grabbed both her upper arms closely, and briskly pulled her in, close to his body, rock hard and nimble. He held her close, hips insistently pressed into hers.

"Quinn?" she said, trembling, her voice rising, his name the only question in her mind, which was going blank.

"_Sit down._ If I can't keep you completely out of harm's way, then... I'm just going to keep you."


	6. Catch and Release

"_Keep me_?" Carrie said, her voice rising. "Have you lost your mind?"

"Yes," he rasped. "That's what I said. I'm going to keep you." The erotic charge of the very suggestion lit the air like a lightning bolt. She could feel what he intended her captivity to be like, and was simulataneously terrified and excited.

She wriggled in the grip of his hands, as he clutched her upper arms, but he was too strong. His expression, previously so tender, had turned hungry, with eyes that looked to devour her alive. Peter's mouth, moments ago a tool for such pleasure, suddenly looked cruel to her. In the light of the swinging light bulb, in this nameless room, his eyes were darker, feral. He wrapped his arms around her and pushed her back away from the door, and to keep from losing her balance, she had to to reach up and hold his shoulders. He lifted her slight body and hustled her along. For a relatively slender, wiry man, he was extremely strong. But then, she thought, being helplessly backed towards the couch, it's all in how you use it. He carried her the rest of the way to the couch and forced to her sit, pinning her wrists in one hand, squatted in front of her on one knee.

"Quinn," she tried to reason. "You can't be serious. Let me go."

He smiled, and though he might have been trying to be reassuring, he had a wicked look in his eye.

"You had your chance," Turning and reaching behind him, he grabbed some of the plastic handcuffs he had left on the torture table. He frowned down at her small hands, clenched in his big ones, and seemed to seriously be about to apply the cuffs, and leave her tied up here while he went about his insane business.

"No!" she shrieked. He really _had_ lost his mind. "Those will hurt! And anyway, you don't need to do this. Just let me go back to the embassy. I'll get on the next transport out," she pleaded.

"No, you won't," Quinn said, letting go of her wrists, dropping the cuffs next to his feet. At least her shriek of fear had affected him. He knelt completely on the floor, and moved his body forward to part her knees. Holding her wrists, he turned her hands and pinned them down on her thighs. "The minute you get out of my sight, you're going to gather a team and try to extract me. I know your tricks, Carrie. Lie, manipulate, exploit? Well, let today be a day for truth-telling. I'm not allowing that." He let go of her wrists, which she pulled away, but his hands remained there, rubbing her thighs, deeply massaging the long muscles with his palms on both sides. Up and down. Long strokes. Coming close to her pussy, and then tantalizingly moving back down and away. "There's not a great rush, anyway. Gerhardt will be four more hours at least while he tracks down the phone locations. We can stay here, and... discuss options. Find a... nicer way to restrain you, so I can keep you safe here, and stop you interfering."

His hands on her thighs were soothing, warm, maddeningly arousing. She gulped. "A nicer way to restrain me? Quinn..."

He leaned over to her, and slowly put his lips on her neck. He kissed and licked very softly upwards until his mouth was right outside her ear, moving slowly, his tenderness underscoring the nature of her captivity. "I'm not raping you, am I? Carrie, you know how I feel." He was suddenly more gentle, but the threat of restraint still rung in her ears. She remembered how dangerous Quinn was on the job, what his knowledge included, and shivered. His hands completed a long stroke all the way up her thighs, and this time, they paused at very top, with both thumbs coming into contact with her pubis. He pressed forward gently, then harder, with both of them, hands spread wide over her hips, nearly spanning her tiny body. Peter's thumbs began to rub in circles on top of her sore pussy, which was still craving him, even though he had half-killed it the night before. She moaned out in little breaths, gasps, eyes closed, and dropped her head down onto his shoulder in front of her. The smell of his skin inflamed her senses.

"No," she breathed, nearly crazy with the feeling of his hands on her, "No, you're not raping me."

"I know," he said. His voice shook. "I can't say that I haven't thought about this. About having you... _surrender _to me." His thumbs were doing extraordinary things to her cunt, she was already sopping wet. His voice in her ear was making her almost sick with desire. "I don't think that it scares you. I think you want it." His hands left her pussy, moved over the front of her blouse, grazing her nipples, and removed the suit jacket from her shoulders. He took it off and threw it aside, leaving her only in a tank top and dress slacks, and then jumped onto the couch beside her. As he sat, she could see that he already had a raging erection straining at his pants. She didn't object, or say a word, only sighed as he reached both arms around her waist from behind and turned her sideways, so she could lay back into the crook of his left arm, cradled, and the rest of her body could splay out, long on the couch, under the ministrations of his right hand.

She tried to close her legs, but Quinn's right hand slapped first at her right thigh, then at her left. "Keep them open," he instructed. His mouth finally came down on hers again, his left arm holding her close, secure, while his right hand covered her entire mons, and began to rub in slow, deep hard circles. Carrie moaned and held onto Quinn's shoulders for dear life. He was bringing her up, arousing her beyond belief, his tongue in her mouth. She squirmed, but he held her tight and kept up the pressure on her cunt. "Be still," he said, spanking her pussy once. "You need this." Again, that iceman voice. It was like her body was an Op and her orgasm, her pleasure, his eventual fucking of her cunt, was the objective. He was going to make her come, he was going to fuck her senseless. And she had opened the gateway by acknowledging she wanted it. The best she could do would be to hold on tight, come her brains out, and hope she didn't end up hogtied at the end of it. He was serious about keeping her here, or containing her somewhere.

A flash or two of rational thought remained, suggesting that she should be trying to escape a sex-crazed assassin who wanted to keep her tied up. But she pushed the thought back down - this was Quinn. Beyond any person she knew in this world, she trusted Quinn. Besides, while his aggressive manner and cool words turned her on like mad, his kisses belied his true feelings. They were tender, gentle. Touching. Quinn was an excellent kisser, she thought, an emotional, expressive kisser, who didn't give too much tongue but knew how to sensually stimulate her lips, her mouth, her neck, her cheeks, with soft attention. Butterfly kisses on her eyelids while he worked her. He sucked her tongue into his mouth, making her gasp. She felt his rock hard erection under her, and wriggled her body under the relentless attention of his massaging hand. He wouldn't stop, wouldn't let her close her legs. "I'm almost coming," she panted.

He held his head back and regarded her, a wicked smile on his face. "That's almost the idea," he said. Her fingernails dug into his shoulders, and sensing her approaching climax, he stopped. "Oh, God, Peter!" she sighed, "Please."

"Not yet," he said. "Not yet." By keeping her orgasm from her, he turned her limbs almost completely limp with desire and compliance. He sat her up, and from behind removed her shirt. Unsnapped her bra and pulled it off. Compelled her to stand and removed her pants, underwear, and socks, so she stood completely naked, wobbling on her feet, while he unzipped himself, releasing his cock. He sat back down. "Get on top of me, Carrie. I want to see you. I want to watch you come."

She turned, and facing him, mounted his cock. As her heat and wetness covered him, he sucked in his breath, and closed his eyes. Laid his head back. She started to ride him, and his warm hands found her breasts. "Oh, Carrie, oh, God. I've wanted you for so long," he moaned, dropping one hand down to start to frig her clit with his educated fingers.

Nothing like a man who knew what he was doing, Carrie though madly, riding his cock and allowing his questing fingers to bring her off. Her anguish of the previous day and night was blown away and dispelled by the orgasm that ripped through, as she held onto Peter's shoulders tightly, clawing with her nails. His hands on her waist to steady her, she came down from her climax, head bowed over his face, curtaining their faces with her soft hair. He kissed her forehead. She finally became aware enough of herself and him to notice he was still rock-hard. "Peter?" she queried, getting her answer quickly enough.

"I'm not done with you," he said breathlessly. He slapped her ass, and lifted her quivering body off his prick, setting her on her feet. She stood submissive, waiting for his next command. Like some drug-filled hallucination, like a crazy dream, his voice filled her ears with fantasies so exotic they were almost depraved, as he stood and turned her around, quickly removing all his clothes from the waist down. Under the direction of his firm hands, she knelt on the couch and got on her hands and knees, his hand firmly pressing down on the back of her neck. She felt him kneel behind her, and dropped her head between her elbows as Quinn mounted her again, this time from behind. As he pushed into her, possessing her, squeezing a taut buttock in each hand, he filled her completely, and she let out a ragged moan. Almost a sob. As he begin to thrust, he spoke to her, statements of obsessive love that bordered on madness.

"I... have been watching you... for so long. Wondering ... what your cunt tastes like. Wondering how your nipples would feel in my mouth. How tight you would feel on my prick. And the things I have wanted to do to you..." He moved in and out of her slick passage, holding her waist and keeping his pace controlled, his voice stark. This was the Quinn of old, the iceman, observing her, thinking about her, falling in love with her. "That night, outside your house, I watched over you from the car. I told you I was at a safe distance. And I had to be, because this is what I wanted to do to you." She suddenly remembered that night with crystal clarity. God, he had loved her even then. He upped his pace, bringing a cry from her throat, and an answering sob from her, "I didn't know, I didn't know..."

"I ... have wanted you... since the moment I first saw you. To hold you, make you come, enter your body in the dark of night, bathe you, and wash your cunt with my fingers until you come again... fuck you until you pass out, and cradle you like a baby in your sleep... to make you mine, Carrie." He reached around front and began to work her clit again. Carrie had been around plenty, but she'd never been laid like this. She began to push back against his cock, encouraging his rhythm to intensify. He felt it, and started to pump her harder and faster. "I need you, need to take you, make you mine and fill you up, so you forget everything, everyone else, everything except coming on my prick..." He was ready to come himself, his voice straining.

It was all too much, and Carrie began to cry and moan, almost begging for mercy as his fingers brought her off again. With his other hand, he slapped her ass. "Oh, God, No, no no no..." Carrie screamed, coming again. Peter gave a groan of release as his shot his hot seed into her, filling her and falling forward over her back, in exhaustion. He stayed put while his cock pulsed, kissing the nape of her neck. They lay down as one, and kissed for breath. "Quinn," she sighed.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked quietly. He lay spooned behind her on the couch, his hands stroking her belly and breasts, his lips next to her cheek.

She turned so they were face to face, squashing his now-flaccid penis between their bellies. "No. You didn't."

He said nothing, only stroked her cheek. They lay still together, enjoying the afterglow, the mean surroundings detracting not at all from the golden warmth of their satisfaction. She was almost asleep, her last conscious memory Peter's lips touching her eyelids, whispering, "...love you," so quietly, like he didn't want her to hear. But all too soon, his voice called her back up out of a dream.

"And now we have to decide what to do with you."

"What?" she gasped. "You mean, all that talk about abduction, that wasn't foreplay?"

Quinn sat up and pulled on his pants, and leaned over her. "I'm crazy about you, but you don't get to do anything you want. Get your clothes on."

"Quinn!" she said.

"I'm serious. Either you're in, and you're helping me. Or I have a spool of rope back here that says you're spending the night on my couch." He waited a moment, and when she didn't respond immediately, just looked at him, frowning, he spoke again. "I would enjoy that, actually. I hope you choose option two."

Carrie didn't say anything, just got immediately to her feet and started to dress. As she snapped her bra closed, she snarked, "You sure know how to break a mood."

He looked at her sadly. "There's nothing I'd rather do than spend the next few days alone with you. But that will have to wait."

The last bit of pleasure between them evaporated, and the fear and seriousness of the situation fell back down over them like a curtain. Carrie finished dressing, as did Quinn. She walked to him as he stood at the desk, looking down at the phone records. She put her arms around him from behind and leaned her head on his back. He closed his eyes, put his hands over her hands. The ache in her chest, the sickness in her stomach, and such intense love for him, all mixed in heart and soul.

Quinn twisted in her arms until they were face-to-face, and pulled her to him, his eyes closed on his anguished tears. "Tell me what I can do," she said, her mouth against his chest. They drew apart, he looking at her steadily. He saw that she had made up her mind.

"I'll contact you later today to give you the basics of Haqqani's whereabouts. You go to Asaar Khan. Tell him you found me and give him a bum steer. And then you send Khan's goons as far away from Haqqani as you can. Then, get back to the embassy and wait to hear from me."

"On my new phone?" she said archly, raising her eyebrows. "Sorry about that," he said.

"Peter, I'm really scared," Carrie said.

Knowing how smart she was, how much they had been through and how completely she understood the situation, he knew better than to bullshit her. "I know," he said, "But I think... if we work together and you don't try to put me in a holding cell, it _might _be ok."

"Might," she said sadly, shaking her head. "OK, Quinn. Take me back."


	7. The division bell

The sun had gone down. The end-of-day desert heat still radiated back up from the pavement in Central Islamabad, and the ground all around Quinn's hideout still shimmered in the heat. It took a good ten minutes of observation while he carefully cased the alley behind his hidden chamber of horrors, and the car, before he encouraged Carrie to emerge, and enter the vehicle. Under his direction, she covered up in the headscarf again, as Quinn donned his cap and drove her back to the embassy.

For a long while, driving through the seedier parts of the city, they held hands, fingers interlaced across the seats in a tight grasp, bound in a tight weave of feeling. It was bizarre, holding hands with Quinn, even in light of what they had just declared to each other, with their bodies and with his words. She was not the demonstrative type, and couldn't remember holding hands with anyone except Maggie or Frank for most of her life. Most of that had been 25 years ago.

As for Quinn, if there was anyone in the world less inclined to an ostentatious show of public affection, she couldn't think of who it was. Anyone at the Agency was warmer. Even Saul gave the odd hug or warm handshake, at least he had in the days before he went private. In the prior years they had known each other, Quinn was more likely to grab her arm brusquely than do anything remotely affectionate. She could remember the night of the explosion, how Quinn had gotten to her first, wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. She had still thought of him as cold-as-ice Quinn, back then, and had assumed it was the comfort he'd offer any other operative who'd been in harm's way. But the more she thought back on it, the more anxious and tender she remembered him being, like he'd have liked to lift and carry her bruised form. Like he had wanted to take her away and nurse her himself. She had felt battered, and weak, and had leaned into him gratefully. Knowing his repressed emotions, knowing what she now knew, it hurt. He had been waiting for her to need him.

So they held hands across the seats of Astrid's Volkswagen, keeping it low, gripping each other tightly, more like two warriors girding their loins for battle and drawing strength from each other's touch than two lovers who were about to be parted. Quinn's seed still slid out of her body, warm and slippery, and she shivered. It had been so intense, the lovemaking. It had been dreamlike. She was still in disbelief about some of the things he'd said. Arousing statements, wild memories, full of ire, fear, love and loss. She'd have to make him repeat them in the light of day, after this ordeal was over, if it ever was.

"So now I'm expected to just go back to the Embassy, and pretend I can't find you?" Carrie asked, irritably, her palm pressed to his. The particulars of Quinn's plan to get Haqqani were something he hadn't shared, and they made her uncomfortable in the extreme. But despite any questioning, he had declined to give her more detail.

"Yes. If you can, go to Khan, get him to call his dogs off the parts of town we discussed. Describe a place as far from the point of my operation as you can think of. Concentrate his troops there. Give him some line of shit, make it believable. And when the local chatter really starts to rumble, keep away from that part of town. Do you understand me, Carrie? I don't want you right in the middle of it. I need to feel free to enable my plan and achieve my objective without worrying every second about whether you're standing in the crossfire."

"Crossfire," she said, feeling like she'd discovered something. "So, it's rifles?" She eyeballed him, out of the corner of her eye. She knew what a good shot he was, it seemed plausible that he'd just spilled something.

"I didn't say that. Stop guessing. And now, you need to get down," he ordered. He put his hand on her ear, and shoved her head down into his lap. "I don't want anyone seeing you with me. We're going to circle the Diplomatic enclave until we're clear. Then, I'm going to dump Astrid's car with the Germans, and switch vehicles. So don't look for this VW, babe."

Head in Quinn's lap, her head pillowed on the dense muscle of his thigh, Carrie sighed. "I won't," she said. "I'm in this now, God help me, and I should have my fucking head examined. How are you set for funds?"

"I have eight or nine thousand Euros, about 2500 dollars US. And a suitcase full of Rupees," he said.

"You're going to need it," she said. "Let me know if you need more. What's your extraction plan?"

Quinn was momentarily silent. The hand he had used to push her head into his lap had remained on her shoulder, had been stroking back and forth from shoulder to elbow, then came to rest on her breast, jealously. His index finger stroked back and forth over the her nipple, enjoying the feeling of it coming erect in her brassiere. He didn't answer, just said after a time, "I'll work that out. It's going to depend."

"Quinn," Carrie said, lying tense under his caresses, feeling annoyed and speaking louder. "You know extraction should be the front end of your plan, not an afterthought. It matters to me if you get out alive, you know."

"It does, huh," he said, smiling, bemused, more than a little pleased, smoothing his finger over her nipple. "That's quite a statement, for you."

Carrie's ire was stirred by his seemingly light treatment of his own life and death. She very nearly shouted at him from her reclining position, head on his lap, even tried to sit up. But he pressed her back down, palm on her shoulder, and pinned her. She grumbled. "Yes, Quinn, _it fucking matters_! And don't make a joke out of it." She finally succeeded in sitting up, and a quick look at her face, swaddled in the purple silk, confirmed that she saw nothing funny about it. Her expression was deeply troubled, and tears hung in the corners of her eyes. "I didn't come so far into this shithole to find you, only to lose you again, and stupidly. Let me help," she finished. He pressed her head back into his lap, more gently, stroking her arm and shoulder this time.

"I will," Quinn said. "I'm getting a new burner phone every day. And _I will call you every day_. Seven PM, alright? I'm not telling you more, because I don't want you to know something that ISI or any of these other bastards can extract out of you," he said, worriedly.

"That's not going to happen," Carrie said. "I intend to stay well out of harm's way. I just wish I knew more how to help you, Quinn."

Finally, Embassy traffic around the entrance cleared, and not a single recognizable vehicle was seen. "Now, jump out, Carrie. Go straight in; say you lost me in the Blue Zone. Get a new phone, and wait for my call," he instructed. "And, _trust me_," he said finally.

With trepidation, even loathing for the situation in her eyes, Carrie complied. She tore off the headscarf, and shoved it back through the car window, leaning in across the empty passenger seat. Quinn gazed back at her, quizzical and solemn in his ridiculous hat.

"Stay in touch with me," she begged, "and be careful."

"I will," he promised.

"I can't stand to lose you now, Quinn. I didn't know, before. But I understand now. I need this to be over, I need you to survive. Promise me," she said, earnestly.

"I will be careful. And I will come back to you. Hopefully, the world will be one terrorist asshole the lesser."

He waved her off, indicated she should go inside, before they were seen together. Night had fallen while they had spent their torrid hours in the hidden warehouse. To the receding car taillights, Carrie spoke her final words to Quinn, though he was long since out of earshot. A sick part of her soul wondered if she'd ever see him again.

"Asshole, you better stay alive."

It was the closest she could come to "I love you."


End file.
